When the man returned, he’d handed Steven an envelope. Steven had nodded, signalled for Nicolette to follow and headed back down the staircase.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why couldn’t I talk? And where’s my passport?’ she’d asked, trying to catch up to him.
‘They sometimes bug those places. Here,’ and he’d handed her the envelope. Inside were both her original passport and a new one, also in her name.
‘A fake. Why would I—’
‘Listen hard. If you’re going to work with me, you follow my rules. And rule number one is – if you’re going to go in a country where there’s any likelihood of any sort of unrest, always carry a spare passport. If there’s any trouble, the first thing they do is take your passport – then you’re stuck there with no hope of getting out. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste any time trying to rescue anybody, ok?’
‘But won’t they know it’s a fake?’
‘Have a look at them.’ Nicolette had pulled out the passports – she hadn’t been able tell which was the fake and which the real. ‘This guy’s the best in all of France. Bend it a bit so it looks like you’ve had it for a while. And don’t go keeping both in your bag. Stick one down your pants or something, somewhere where they won’t go looking…’
When they’d gotten back to her hotel, Steven had insisted they go back to her room.
‘I might as well check your gear while I’m at it,’ he’d said, ‘you’ve probably got that wrong too.’ He’d rummaged through her bag and though she’d protested, in the end he’d only objected to her boots. ‘You have no idea, have you?’ he’d asked as he’d walked out of her room with them under his arm. A short while later he’d returned with a new pair – more practical, lightweight and waterproof, with small, crescent-shaped metal plates on the underside of the heels.
Nicolette looked down at her feet. The boots may not be as fashionable as her other pair, and there was nothing feminine about them, but she had to admit they were a lot more comfortable. She just wished Steven didn’t behave in such an obnoxious manner.
Then, to make matters worse, when they’d finally sat down to a meal she’d tried to counteract her inexperience by hinting she was familiar with Algeria, but that too had been a mistake. It hadn’t taken Steven long to work out that Nicolette had left Algeria as a child, and that her knowledge of the area was fourteen years out of date. He’d lapsed into an angry silence, and she’d been about to excuse herself and go back to her room when his mood had changed, and he’d become so full of good humour and advice that Nicolette had mellowed towards him. The only reference he’d made to her inexperience in the field was when he’d said goodnight: ‘Don’t worry, kiddo, you’re with me now. We’ll get your pics on the front pages somehow.’
Nicolette sighed – yes, the next few days should prove interesting, but the opportunity of working with someone like Morris wasn’t something to dismiss lightly. How long would this take? If Boumedienne was in a coma, he might last for months, or die tomorrow. It was unlikely she’d be back home for Christmas, but she could get lucky and make it back for New Year’s.
She saw the tall Australian cross the street, dodging around cars as he came towards her. She thought he looked more like a fisherman than a journalist – in his late thirties/early forties, his hair was just a fraction too long, and his beard had a hint of grey, but what intimidated Nicolette most was the aura of supreme confidence that surrounded him; he looked as if he never doubted any of his actions. Ever.
‘So how come you live here part of the year?’ she asked once he’d sat down.
‘I’m mad for the bouillabaisse.’
‘Bullshit.’
Steven looked at her for an instant, then smiled. ‘Okay, you got me. It’s not just the soup. It’s just handy for me. Business to do, people to see, as they say…’
‘What? Who?’
‘Never mind what who. Nothing that concerns you. Personal stuff, okay?’
A woman, then. She watched two old men set up a game of dominos a few tables away. She still felt Steven wasn’t being totally honest with her, but there was little she could do about it at this stage. Deep down, if she were honest with herself, she knew Steven was right – she really was a rank amateur. She should consider herself lucky that someone as experienced as he had agreed to let her ‘tag along’, as he’d put it. She was going to have to depend on him for the next few days, maybe even weeks, so better to let it drop and not ask too many questions.
She breathed in the cold evening air and sat back. We should do this in Australia, she thought, appreciating the lack of formality sitting at a table outside a café brought. But then Australia hadn’t discovered the pleasures of cafés yet, and even if it had, she doubted it would have anything like La Mère Margot. A small family concern, it housed no more than five small tables inside, four outside. Père Margot was the cook, Lucien, a son, waited, and Mère Margot sat by the cash register near the door, from where she could chat to patrons both in and out, and glare at any young woman foolish enough to flirt with her son. Steven had explained the set-up earlier, and from the welcome Mère Margot gave him, it was obvious he was a regular. Lucien approached their table carrying a tray.
‘Compliments de Maman,’ he said as he set before them a bowl of aïoli, a basket of bread and a plate overflowing with hard-boiled eggs, tiny new potatoes, and cherry tomatoes. He left, then returned with two glasses and a carafe of red wine.
‘Merci Madame,’ Steven called out to the woman grinning at them from her perch. Nicolette took a slice of bread and spread it thickly with the garlicky mayonnaise. ‘Hey, be careful, that’s a bit—’ But Nicolette had popped the bread into her mouth and was chewing with a blissful expression. ‘Okay, so you know aïoli.’
‘I love the stuff – I was brought up on it. In fact, my earliest memory is of sitting on my grandfather’s lap, and he dipping his finger in a bowl of it then giving it to me to suck.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Very little. I don’t think I was even walking yet.’
Steven shook his head in disbelief. ‘He gave a baby aïoli?’
‘Hey, don’t knock it. It’s good for you.’ Nicolette grinned and spread another piece of bread.
‘So tell me about this grandfather of yours.’
‘Grandpa Louis? He was my favourite person ever. When my mum and I left Algeria, he came with us. He was old then, but he was still my best friend. He was always telling me stories about what Algeria was like when he was a kid – he went there with his father, when the French government was giving away land grants. He really loved the place.’
‘He sounds pretty special, this grandfather of yours.’
‘He was. The most important person in my life. Plus he was the only one that could get my mum to lay off me.’
‘How d’you mean?’
Nicolette shrugged. ‘We didn’t get on, that’s all.’
‘It happens. So what about now?’
‘Now’s okay. I moved to Melbourne, she’s in Adelaide. I see her at Christmas. We can be nice for that.’
Steven shrugged. He wasn’t interested in mother-daughter problems.
‘So this thing with your grandfather – is that why you took this job?’
Nicolette hesitated, then nodded. ‘Partly. I realised how little I remember about the place. Yeah, I know – don’t look at me like that – I should have been honest with you up front. But there’s another reason. I had two very close friends in Algeria – Jamilah and her brother Rafiq. Rafiq’s a couple of years older than us, but he was always with us. We were like family. I’d like to see if I can find them again.’
‘I don’t like your chances.’
‘I know. But if I’m going to be there anyway…’
The two men playing dominos finished one game and started another. All along the quay streetlights were coming on. Nicolette sat back in her seat, pleased that Steven had accepted her explanation at face value. She di
dn’t want to try and explain why it was so important for her to go back. Ever since Willow’s death, she’d had this urge, this need, to remember her own childhood, to fill in the blanks. And if she managed to do that, what then? Grandpa Louis had always spoken of the strong bond he’d had with Jamilah and Rafiq’s grandfather – stronger than any blood bond, he’d often said. Maybe she could re-establish that bond with Jamilah and Rafiq, re-establish a friendship with people who had known her since she was a child, recreate a friendship so strong that would help fill the void, the emptiness within her…
‘Are you worried about tomorrow?’ Steven asked. Nicolette frowned at him, confused. ‘Tomorrow. Algeria.’
‘Oh! No, of course not.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘Well, maybe just a little.’
‘Little’s good – keeps you on your toes. But you’ll be right – just don’t go chasing anything on your own, okay? Stick by me. And if I tell you to do something, just do it – don’t start arguing the point.’
‘But it’s safe, right? They’re not at war anymore. And they don’t bother the press, do they?’
‘No, they shouldn’t bother us. Boumedienne’s strict, but most of the people think he’s alright, which helps. You’ve got a few Berber groups who don’t like the way Algeria’s run by Arabs, and they’ve been causing a bit of trouble, but we should be ok.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is he hasn’t groomed a successor, so now would be a good time for the Berbers to demand representation. You never know what can happen in a situation like that. I remember one time in India—’
‘No horror stories, please. Save them till we’re back home. Look, here’s our bouillabaisse.’
Lucien placed a soup tureen on their table with a basket of oven-dried bread. He hurried into the café and returned with a platter of assorted fish and seafood, and a bowl of rust coloured sauce. ‘Bon appétit.’
Steven pointed to the bowl of rouille. ‘Now this is really, really hot, so don’t go doing your aïoli trick. Nearly all chilli.’ He picked up a slice of dried bread. ‘Here, like this,’ and he spread a very thin film of rouille onto the bread, placed it in his bowl, then he poured a ladleful of saffron-tinted soup over it.
Nicolette breathed deep the aroma of fennel.‘Smells so good…’
‘Wait till you try it.’
She copied Steven’s ritual then tasted this soup that was supposedly responsible for Steven’s presence in Marseille.
‘Well?’
‘Mmmm… Good.’
‘Good? Good? Woman, it’s the best you’ll ever taste.’ Then Steven forgot about Nicolette and concentrated on his own meal.
#
Nicolette picked at the backbone of a fish with her fingers. ‘I am just so full,’ she complained as she popped yet another piece into her mouth.
‘I’m surprised you never came to Marseille before.’
‘Never had the opportunity. Steven, can I ask you something? Why did you agree to team up with me?’
‘Hey, kiddo, we’re not a team, remember?’ He laughed at her expression. ‘Nah, you’ll be right – everyone has to start somewhere, and I don’t do photos anyway, so it’s not like you’re competition. Plus, if Ted gave you my number, you must be alright, so there’s no reason you can’t tag along. You might even come in useful. Okay, let’s go – I still have to organise a couple of things for tomorrow.’
‘I’d rather stay here a bit longer.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Steven, I’m not a child. I’m fine. A little jetlagged, that’s all. I just wish we were there already, so I don’t have to get on another plane.’
‘You’ll be okay?’
‘Yes, go. I’ll be fine.’
#
A full moon had risen, illuminating the two forts – Saint-Jean and Saint-Nicholas – that guarded the entrance of the port. Storm clouds gathered. Somewhere a radio played Christmas jingles. A car backfired and Nicolette started; she’d been dozing. She looked around her. The domino-playing men were gone, the café was empty except for a young couple at the far table. The woman was crying and the man was trying to comfort her, but she kept hitting his hands away. Mère Margot was still sitting by the till, watching. She saw Nicolette look her way and shrugged. The air was much colder, the quay quieter. It was late. Nicolette rose.
‘Thank you, Madame. The bouillabaisse was wonderful.’
Madame nodded her acknowledgement. The young man swore in frustration and the woman cried louder. Nicolette walked towards her hotel. A fine soft drizzle began to fall, giving the roads an ebony gleam. The air smelt crisp, clean. The heels of her boots echoed along the empty street. A cat ran out from the side of a building. Stopped. Stared at Nicolette then, with a soft ‘mrrrr’ and tail raised high, disappeared into the night. She walked on, hands deep inside the pockets of her jacket. She felt she could be the only one left alive in the whole world, so absolute was the silence in this part of the city. Only the click, click, click of her boots, and the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Then, faintly, she heard a soft haunting tune, so unexpected yet so right in this setting. She followed it.
Sitting cross-legged in a doorway, his eyes closed, a young man played the panpipes. He was bearded, bare-foot, wearing a greatcoat. Nicolette watched him and listened. She dared not move in case her presence inhibit him. But he felt her there and opened his eyes. Without stopping his music he smiled and gestured with his head for her to join him on the pavement. So she sat on the wet footpath and leaned back against the damp window of a shop, her arms around her legs.
The young man continued playing, gentle unearthly tunes that told of hopes and fears and wishes. Nicolette listened, no longer aware of the rain that still fell, nor of the hard, cold concrete she sat on. It was as if time no longer existed. The city no longer existed. Only the two of them, the music a talisman against the world.
A burst of laughter close by broke the spell. The young man lowered his panpipes and looked at Nicolette, then, still without a word, smiled a sad smile and shrugged. Nicolette smiled back. It was time for her to go. An occasional car whooshed past. She rose and dug her hands deep into her pockets. Panpipe music echoed in her head and her heels click click clicked along the empty street.
#
Marseille in the early morning was very different to the languid Marseille of the evening. At this time in winter it was barely light, and the cafés were closed except for one or two that catered to fishermen. The prostitutes and drug dealers had finally gone to their beds alone, and the drunks were lying unconscious somewhere, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around them. Thick fog shrouded the View Port and memories of its past haunted the alleyways – trading ships and the Plague, Crusaders and the Mafia – but still Marseille in the morning was all efficiency. Fishing boats that had been out for hours brought back their catch, and within the hour sold it at the fish market on the Quai des Belges. Street urchins saved sympathy-evoking tactics for the evening, favouring the ‘grab and run’ method of survival instead.
Nicolette walked along the quay, looking for Steven. He’d left word for her check out of the hotel and meet him here, and she was a little annoyed – they still hadn’t bought their tickets to Algiers, and she wanted them to be on their way. She saw him talking to a fisherman.
‘Steven, good morning,’ she called, hurrying towards him.
‘Morning Nicky.’ He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands to warm up, then took her bags from her. ‘Got a surprise for you. What d’you think?’ He pointed to a fishing boat.
‘What do I think of what?’
‘The boat. It’s taking us to Algiers.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Nope. All your idea.’
‘My idea?’
‘Yup – you did say you didn’t want to get back on a plane, so I thought we’d go by boat. Come on, you’ll love it. We’ve just got time for a quick coffee.’
He gave her bags to the
man he’d been talking to and led her to a little bistro a short distance away.
#
It seemed to Nicolette that this fisherman was probably making more money running people back and forth to Algiers than he did fishing. The deck was crowded with white-robed women whose faces were covered except for their kohl-lined eyes, and with men in red fezzes who argued and gesticulated, and ignored the women. Chickens in cages clucked and squawked and the smell of livestock mingled with that of engine fuel. Two goats were tied with ropes held by a solemn, dark-eyed little girl. Nicolette smiled at the child, but the girl frowned back. Above the chug of the engine seagulls screeched as they circled. Nicolette leaned on the railing and watched Marseille disappear in the already lifting fog. She pulled a camera out of her bag and took a couple of shots – they’d be good for her travel piece.
‘Look over there,’ Steven pointed. ‘The Friouls.’ Nicolette could just make out the silhouettes of four small islands. ‘The Château d’If’s on that one.’
‘The Dumas Château d’If?’
‘There is only one,’ he smiled.
Nicolette changed the lens of her camera to a telephoto and zoomed in on the small limestone island. She photographed the fortress, the three towers, the cliffs rising steeply from the surrounding ocean, and promised herself she’d return before going back home – she figured the Count of Monte Cristo’s famous prison would appeal to The Herald readers’ convict origins. She pulled her jacket closer around herself.
‘Cold?’
‘I’m all right.’ She changed back to her normal lens and focussed on the goat-girl. Took a couple of shots and the child pretended not to notice but turned slightly towards her. Nicolette smiled and pressed the shutter again. She turned her camera towards Steven, but he put up his hand, blocking the lens.
‘Oh come on, just one.’
‘No way. My ugly mug’ll probably break it.’
‘Please?’
‘I said no.’
His tone warned Nicolette not to argue. She put the camera away.
That Devil's Madness Page 9
